


Magister

by Cvokhauz



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Orchids, PWP, Porn, Teacher-Student Relationship, also, also I love cavafy entirely too much for it to be normal, i don't know latin, im sorry, outsider pov, this is for Nagat, what if richard walked in on julian and henry doing the do instead of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7790245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cvokhauz/pseuds/Cvokhauz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Richard hadn't walked in on Henry kissing Julian, but came by a tad sooner?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magister

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nagat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagat/gifts).



> Copious amounts of caffeine and hummus and painful research on NG's part were needed to write this piece of shit. The first bit is lifted directly from the book. Enjoy.

That afternoon, I went to see Julian on the pretext of talking about credit transfers, but with something very different on my mind. For it seemed, quite suddenly, that my decision to drop everything for Greek had been a rash and foolish one, and made for all the wrong reasons. What had I been thinking of? I liked Greek and I liked Julian, but I wasn’t sure if I liked his pupils and anyway, did I really want to spend my college career and subsequently my life looking at pictures of broken kuroi and poring over the Greek particles? Two years before, i had made a similar heedless decision which had plummeted me int o a nightmarish, year-long round of chloroformed rabbits and day trips to the morgue, from which I had barely escaped at all. This was by no means as bad (with a shudder I remembered my old zoology lab, eight in the morning, the bobbing vats of fetal pigs), by no means – I told myself – as bad as that. But still it seemed like a big mistake, and it was too late in the term to pick up my old classes or change counsellors again.  
  
I suppose I’d gone to see Julian in order to revive my flagging assurance, in hopes he would make me feel as certain as I had that first day. And I am fairly sure he would have done just that if only I had made it in to see him. But as it happened, I didn’t get to talk to him at all.  
  
Stepping onto the landing outside his office, I saw his door open and was so struck by this odd sight (for usually, he guarded his rooms like an elfin treasure-keeper) that I stopped, unsure of how to proceed, as confused as Oeidipus might have been if, having reached Thebes, the sphinx were gone. Such was my preoccupation with the Greek class then that I did not think this analogy the least hyperbolic.  
  
Warily, I approached the entrance, waiting for him to emerge at any moment – when nothing of the sort happened, I cautiously stepped in and found the room empty except for the scent of orchids that he cultivated, strange veined blossoms on the windowsill. On his desk there was an open copy of the Illiad and a saucer – thinking maybe he’s gone to the kitchenette to refill his cup, I headed through a low-lit hall to the small room. There was nothing but an empty teapot on the otherwise meticulously clean counter and I was about to turn back, when I heard voices from the study. The unmistakable cadence of Henry’s Greek surprised me, but more so Julian’s curt and harsh sounding answer.  
I couldn’t make out what they were saying and felt suddenly painfully aware of my own awkward situation. I didn’t want to barge in on their argument, undoubtedly drawing attention to what I now saw as my unforgivably vulgar snooping around, so I decided to stay where I was in hopes they would remain in the study. I knew Henry was supposed to meet Bunny in the library in half an hour to help him with his Greek prose composition, a weekly ritual reminiscent of the torture of Prometheus I’ve witnessed a few times already, and I assumed Julian would go to see him out of the Lyceum doors, as he often did, giving me a chance to slip out.  
  
I hovered uncertainly in the kitchenette but then decided to move closer to the door leading to the study, to be better able to spot my chance to escape. I’d left the door cracked open and was able to discern the dark, motionless silhouette of Henry by the window, a stark contrast to the fragile blossoms of the orchids and animatedly gesticulating Julian in front of him. He, although usually excluding an aura of almost aristocratic calm, appeared to be rather distraught. I did not understand a word of what he was saying because while I was quite confident of my writing and reading abilities, my Greek couldn’t yet approach his rapid fire proficiency. Henry did not seem perturbed by such atypical behaviour, but then again, he hardly ever seemed perturbed by anything at all.  
  
I have to admit that I was intrigued by the situation – what could’ve warranted such an outburst? It did not seem to be directed at Henry, although I caught his name amidst the chaos a few times. Just as I was wondering whether this was something that happened often, Henry interrupted Julian – something none of us ever dared to do during lessons – with a quick question I didn’t manage to catch. Julian let out a strangled laugh.  
  
“Yes, I suppose you would see it like that.”  
  
“You worry entirely too much” replied Henry, now in English as well – with that, he stepped towards Julian, raising one hand to cup his cheek, a gesture so affectionately paternal it seemed to me infinitely alien to see it extended towards Julian, who was in many ways the patriarch of the clique.  
  
“There is nobody here,” Henry continued, looking at Julian firmly. The latter still appeared somewhat tense, but after a short moment of silence, nodded and smiled with his usual breeziness.  
  
“You must think me a paranoid old man, afraid of his own shadow,” he said, jokingly, though Henry remained solemn, an underworld entity.  
  
“I have never known you anything else than interpid, magister,” he said, a look of almost reverence on his face, before he leaned in and kissed Julian softly on the lips.  
  
I’d like to say that I’d backed away from the doorway in shock, but I stood there, transfixed and thinking suddenly of how Henry always spoke so adoringly of Julian. The rest of us were very fond of him, but no one quite neared Henry’s degree of almost fanatical devotion. Alas, there was an explanation, or what seemed like one. In light of Henry’s and Julian’s shared infatuation by their chosen field of study, it did not seem unlikely that they had developed a fitting relationship, that of erastes and eromenos, a bond between tutor and pupil that goes beyond the meek classroom standards of modern age. It did not, however, help my unease – I now felt even more like a stranger and an intruder, watching Henry’s large hands undress Julian’s slender form with such care and gentleness.  
  
Julian’s composure was slipping, blush colouring his pale complexion as Henry methodically made his way down his neck and then back up to kiss him again, much more deeply this time. His hands gripped Julian’s waist and he backed him into his desk, mahogany legs scraping across the floor before he lifted him up so that Julian was sat upon it with Henry, still meticulously dressed, looming over him like the dark shadow of Hades. But Julian was no quivering Persephone, his fingers deftly unbuttoning Henry’s shirt and skimming over his chest to which Henry for all his stoicism seemed no more immune than a regular man, breath catching in his throat. He attacked the expanse of Julian’s throat and torso anew with the vigour of a conqueror and continued down towards his hipbone, running one hand along his inner thigh and down his leg to grasp his ankle and gently remove the polished oxford shoe. He then knelt down to do the same with the other one and briefly kissed Julian’s ankle before divesting him of his trousers and underwear in one fluid motion.  
  
It was a strange sight and even though I am not a man of these tastes, I have to admit there was a certain thrill in seeing them, for they seemed almost like an artful composition of some poet, Cavafy perhaps, while still maintaining a degree of classical beauty in their contrast – the ragged breaths, Henry’s dark suit, Julian unabashedly naked and spread out on his desk, the deep red mahogany, the orchid blossoms.  
  
They stayed motionless for maybe a heartbeat before Julian arched up to kiss Henry, fingers fumbling with his trousers – but Henry drew away, panting slightly  
  
“Sine, amabo, ted amari.“  
  
Julian moaned at that, whether in pleasure at the linguistic aptitude of his student or the prospect in question I don’t know, and, chasing after Henry’s mouth once more, slid off the desk and turned around, leaning into Henry and throwing his head back onto his shoulder.  
  
I’d never have expected to see such abandon in the otherwise so restrained Julian and marvelled at how Henry kept his calm when presented with a sight so uncommon and dare I say certainly arousing. Julian then leaned foward and gripped the edges of his desk, urging Henry to hurry in breathy Greek.  
  
Henry reached into one of the drawers and brought out a small flask. Apparently, this was a regular enough occurrence. I idly wondered whether it was the same lubrication gel I’ve seen on Francis’ bedside table or whether they used olive oil like the Greeks did. Henry, having unbuttoned his trousers with one hand, poured a liberal amount into his palm, spread it along his – considerable – length and glanced quickly at the clock.  
  
“We’ll have to be quick, magister.”  
  
Julian closed his legs and arched his back at this and Henry thrust between his thighs, gripping his waist, surely hard enough to bruise. Julian moaned again, seeming much younger than he was, a youth to be wined and dined and then bedded in some remote sun-soaked corner of the Old World. Henry grunted and thrust between Julian’s thighs again, leaning over him and biting down hard on the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Julian let out a ragged shout at this and Henry set a brutal pace, his thrusts soon approaching crescendo and it wasn’t long before he spilled with a quiet groan. He stood motionless for a moment, leaning heavily on Julian – then, drawing a shaky breath, he rose and adjusted his trousers and spun Julian around so that they were facing each other. He was still very visibly aroused, his thighs were painted with a mixture of Henry’s release and oil and he was shaking. Henry kissed him, tenderly and softly as if in an apology for his previous roughness, and then abruptly sunk to his knees and took Julian’s member into his mouth.  
  
Julian’s eyes fluttered close as Henry slowly and thoroughly, almost worshipfully pleasured him, dark head bobbing up and down. It did not take long before he was spilling as well, jaw slack, mouth ajar, so unlike himself I could scarcely recognize him. I was mortified now, even more so because my exposure to their proclivities began to manifest itself in a rather unfortunate way. After a moment he spent with his head resting against Julian’s leg, Henry stood up again, a thin streak of seed and a slight smile on his face.  
“Thank you, magister,” he murmured. Julian smiled exhaustedly and I could see traces of the benevolent dictator I knew him to be in that expression. He drew Henry’s pocket square out of his pocked, motioned for him to lean down and wiped the seed away before giving him a quick chaste kiss on the lips.  
  
“You really must run now, young discipulus,” he said with a glance to the clock. Henry nodded curtly and, small smile still playing on his lips, refolded his pocket square and made to leave. Julian followed him, unconcerned about his nudity – no one but us ever came to the Lyceum after all – and I saw my chance. I knew I couldn’t use the gate and I couldn’t risk Julian returning to find me there, so I threw open the window in the study and scrambled over the delicate orchid blossoms out, out of the room that still held a smell of their coupling along with the heady fragrance of the flowers, and into the clear air of autumn dusk.


End file.
